


The Lady Doth Protest

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [5]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Pre-the road not taken, Speculation, dark au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe set pre- 'The Road Not Taken' detailing Cameron's fall from grace and how Vala ended up in Area 51. Fifth in an ongoing series.
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. The Woman's Part

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is diverging from the form of the previous four stories by being multiple chapters. I just felt the jumps were too divided to fit together--however they are all from Vala's POV. Other stories down the line will have chapters as well should the occasion call for it. 
> 
> I will try to be more prompt at updating, as since it's chapters, it's broken down with less pages to edit.

He doesn’t have to tell her what is going on, she simply knows.

The nod followed by astounding panic.

The Tau’ri always act differently when the hardships are their own.

She heals the president fully, despite her want to leave him with just a twinge of pain, just a squish of debilitation, as he has left her for over a year now.

As the president, the leader of this so-called free country, celebrates among his men with back claps and hearty congratulations, she drops her head to Cameron’s shoulder—sick, exhausted—and the warmth of his hand against her thigh is a rudimentary comfort.

The president approaches them, buttoning up a similar white dress shirt to the strewn across the floor with smatterings of blood, oblivious to Cameron removing his hand and settling it in his own lap instead. “You could show a little more enthusiasm, Ms. Mal Doran.”

Cameron will later tell her that the appropriate response would have been to express her relief and joy that the man who inadvertently tortured her and kept her a prisoner for the last year, is alive and well.

However, when the president’s face transforms into one of bridging disappointment, Cameron jolts up from beside her, “if I may speak on Vala’s behalf, Sir?” The president gives him a nod, so he continues, “using the device depletes her energy. She’s already battling an infection from the bullet wound for the last year—”

Either because of her heroic actions, or because of Cameron’s way with words—perhaps both—she’s moved to an upgraded room with private sanitary quarters and a bed large enough to sleep three—something the remnants of Qetesh informs her of.

It’s still rather dark and bleak underneath the mountain, but at least she doesn’t have shackles any longer. At least if she wants to stroll to the commissary, or the work out room, or down to Dr. Jackson’s lab, she has free reign to do so.

They’ve partnered her with Dr. Jackson, and sometimes she finds him staring oddly at her while she works on Goa’uld translations in Qetesh’s preferred dialect. He still offers her hot beverages and pastries that are delectably bought from off base, fresh and flakey and filled with some smooth, sweet creams.

She eats more than her fair share, but he simply grins at her.

During mealtimes, she picks at her food in the commissary, sitting at a table alone, as most of the other military personnel steer clear of her. However, Dr. Jackson nears her while she stabs a fork into food she’s told is a delicacy in some place they call Italy. Long noodles and plump, chewy balls of animal flesh she cuts in half and drowns in the bright red sweetened vegetable paste.

Dr. Jackson sits across from her and clasps his hands together. “General Hammond wants you to come out on a mission with SG-1.”

She slurps up a noodle, still detested by the taste but her stomach is demanding food. “What use could I possibly be?”

“Apparently there’s a new player in this universal domination game.” He grabs one of the napkins from her tray and uses it to clean his glasses. Without them his eyes look squinty from the years of reading fine texts. “One of them is on a planet in this galaxy and won’t answer any of our questions. Hammond wants you to come with the team to see if your former status as a lord has any pull.”

Before she can answer, Cameron sets his tray beside her at the table, dropping a kiss into the top of her hair and caressing her shoulder gently as he sits beside her. They haven’t exactly been forthright about their relationship—particularly to General Hammond or the president, but do not feel inclined to hide their feelings when not on formal excursions.

“Sorry I’m late, Baby.” Slides a slice of pie onto her tray, which shouldn’t make her blush as she does. “I called ahead and got them to save one for me.”

Dr. Jackson clears his throat, leaning back from their conversation.

“Hey Jackson,” Cameron greets as he sets aside a Styrofoam cup full of that awful smelling liquid. “What’s the buzz?”

“I was just requesting Vala’s input on an interplanetary matter—”

“Interplanetary?” He stirs the liquid and she rubs her leg against his, not trying to razzle him, but she missed him, his proximity during the last day or two while he and the president did something called ‘damage control’. “You rounding up Teal’c again?”

“No, there’s a hostile presence on an outer rim planet and—”

“He wants to use my previously regal stature, Darling.” She interrupts Dr. Jackson so he doesn’t waste his energy explaining the plan again.

“Put the scare into them, huh?” He takes a large, sloppy bite of some sort of meat and bread combination—there are so many on this planet that she can never keep them straight—then nudges her with his shoulder. “You should be eating more of your spaghetti. You can’t just eat dessert.”

Hears him, but instead slices through the flakey pie crust, giving him a wide grin. “Fortunately, this is one of your Tau’ri rules which I do not need to abide by.”

He tries to hide his amusement, the coy smile faltering as he speaks, “the protein will give you more energy, then you wouldn’t be as tired so often.”

“Well, it’s poorly cooked.”

“It’s cafeteria food.”

“Then perhaps you should—”

“All right.” Dr. Jackson noisily stands from his side of the table, jittering it a bit as he pushes back. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning, so meet SG-1 in—”

“SG-1?” Cameron halts the track of his food to his mouth, eyes scrolling away from her to meet Dr. Jackson’s.

The doctor hesitates, first glancing at her, then back at Cameron, before heaving loudly. “Yes, SG-1, Mitchell—”

“No.”

“Don’t make this a big deal—”

Ignoring the doctor’s plea, Cameron flings himself up from the table. “It is a big deal!”

She only watches the exchange in interest, and a bit of confusion, while sneaking snack-sized portions of pie. Eventually, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket to garner his attention and get him to sit. “What’s a big deal?”

“Nothing.”

Shrugs and shovels in a larger bit of pie. “Seems to be something.”

Cameron glares at the doctor, then picks his words very carefully. “The leader of SG-1.”

“I thought Dr. Jackson was the leader.”

As the doctor opens his mouth to reply, Cameron laughs, “Yeah, he wishes.”

“Nice Mitchell.” Dr. Jackson rolls his eyes. “He’s worried because Lorne is the leader of SG-1.”

She abandons the golden pastry and the shiny red tart filling. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Cameron too abandons his lunch, to retrieve her fork and eat the portion of pie himself. “Oh.”


	2. Pleasant Fountains Lie

While she appreciates the basic amenities provided to her, the table lamp with a few novels to quench her boredom, the thick but scratchy comforter scrunched underneath her bare legs, trusting her with a glass so she can refill it as she pleases from the sink in her adjacent washroom—which, she suspects, was only bestowed onto her when Lorne returned to the base in order to decrease the chances of them stumbling upon each other—she’s still very much a prisoner.

She’s not fatigued, but cold, and nearing midnight she decides turn out the light and fall into an uneasy slumber. It’s hard for her to sleep here, hard from laying on her back where pressure digs into her wound that has long since had its year anniversary and still weeps pus.

She has night terrors, only not so much fabricated as memories raging through her unconscious mind, a few remnants of Qetesh, but more so being shot, being kept captive for so long, certain men suppressing her, rigid fingertips drilling into her arm, the palm of a hand on the back of her head pushing her down.

Could escape now.

Easily escape.

Only no other place would be as grand as Earth or have as much to offer.

Have certain people.

Cradling a state of semi-sleep, she’s vaguely aware of her dorm door whooshing open, but cannot connect the dangers behind it, the fear in footfalls tapping over her floor, until the sensation, what she thinks is a memory-based apparition of a person, appears at the side of her bed.

A hand lands on her shoulder, not heavy, very warm, but unwarranted.

“Vala?”

Jumps into consciousness, eyes open and dizzying about the room trying to discover the identity of her assailant. Rolling from the middle of the bed, to the side furthest away. Stands, bare legs crisping in the cold air, and chest burning at huffing.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Holds his hands out to her, concern drooping his brows, curving his whispered words.

“Cameron, what are you doing here?” Laughs to herself but starts to cough from the buildup in her chest.

“I couldn’t sleep.” For the first time she notices his dressed down attire of a blue t-shirt and gray baggy pants. “I was wondering if—” and he motions to the bed.

Another laugh escapes her at his act of innocence, it too turns into a wracking cough.

His lips pull tight and he nods to the bed again, pulling back the sheets for her. She complies, sliding between the cool layers while drowning another slew of coughs, gladly accepting the water he fills for her in the washroom.

“Talk to Lam in the morning.” Sounds like a suggestion, but she knows it’s a declaration, not so much a demand—yet. She returns the glass to him, and he sets it back atop a coaster, then begins peeling off his shirt and shoes.

Watches his perfect posture and footing and is proud that she was able to help deliver it to him. “Why would that change anything?”

“Because I told Hammond you would only go with SG-1 under two conditions.”

“I thought we had this discussion already.” Holds back the blankets for him and he scoots close to her, a hand sliding around her hip, directing her to him. When his lips land on her neck she sighs her continuance. “Demanding things only makes them angrier.”

His lips trail over her neck, down the slope of her collarbone and plant firmly on her shoulder. “Lam’s gonna let you use the hand device tomorrow to heal up this wound.”

“Oh, and what was your other—” Her breath hitches into a concealed cough as his hand caresses down her shoulder, rounding around her wound, to cup her breast through her nightie.

Slides his other hand from her hip over her thigh before tugging her closer still. He’s hard against her hip and she falls into the feeling of him, the scent of him freshly showered yet deeply aroused, lifting her arms when he yanks the nightie over her head.

Captures his lips, stifling his laughter, the huff of hot air in her mouth along with his tongue and she arches into him.

“I said I had to come with you.” The words vibrate through her skin, as his lips course over her stomach to the dip of her hip.

Forgets the topic of their conversation, doesn’t comprehend him with her and the rest of SG-1 sitting on a Tau’ri spacecraft used only for defensive purposes that she knows are cloaked in offense, because he’s looping her legs over his shoulders.

“Several times I hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis.


	3. Breathe Life Into A Stone

They’re nearing an hour late for the launch of whatever mythologically monikered ship they’ll be boarding, but Lorne threw a last-minute temper tantrum against her right to heal herself.

They told her to remain in place, so she sat in her room and coughed, the heat ripping through her lungs and her chest growing tighter, as Cameron popped for a ‘visit’ offering her soups, juice, and some carbonated beverage with ginger that soothed her for an hour or so. Brought menthol smelling ointments he rubbed into her skin that burned the longer they remained but allowed her the first deep inhalation in a month.

His hand shrouded her head, and with no medical knowledge she’s aware of, declared she had a fever, tucked her in with a cup of water beside her bed, and left her to nap until he returned.

“We went to Landry.” Caressed his finger over her cheek, clearing the hair flung in her face from a deep fit of sleep, sitting on the edge of her bed, filling the convex left by her curled body. “He said that if you were going to do any harm, you’d have done it by now.”

Healing oneself is a trifling ordeal.

Cameron wagered that she was ill with a simple Tau’ri chest cold, the kind toddlers in their exploratory phase with dirty hands are frequent victims off, though he suspected her compromise immune system was the reason.

They sit in the medical area, him beside her on the cot, knees turned in towards her, supporting her craggy back with two strong palms. Stays silent when she beckons him to do so, because concentrating on the hurt and the heal are two vastly different subjects that need to merge.

Dr. Lam quickly dismisses herself from the room feeling that this is private matter, feeling awkward by their closeness.

Their unabashedly unique closeness.

The glow, the warmth, like closing her eyes to the sun on a particularly hot day, floats around in her chest, molds and grows, fitting into the pieces of her that are broken, suggesting, then implementing new tissue, fibers, and muscle until her inhale is unrestricted and pain free.

Exhales in a contented sigh and the device drops from her hand, clacking across the floor as her body falls languid across the bed. Warned him the act of healing would take a lot of her strength and energy, but he jumps up, touching, questioning, requiring a basic reassurance.

Offers only a fatigued grin in the form of twitching lips and half-lidded eyes, which he returns accompanied by a soft peck on her forehead.

*

She wakes up several hours later in a bed not her own from the base, but a new bed in a cold quarters on the Tau’ri vessel. Outside a blue haze glows while they speed to their destination. Feels renewed, perhaps not just the use of the hand device, but being in space, being buoyant among a crew of Tau’ri, the majority of whom do not have their space legs yet.

He’s no exception.

Expects that he wouldn’t stray too far from her quarters, but as she takes to the corridors, striding on strong sturdy legs through soldiers scampering for the nearest waste bin to overturn their stomachs in, she finds no sign of him.

The ship is nonsensical as the Tau’ri have designed the vessel to fit their whims, ignoring accessibility issues, all while attempting to construct the biggest ship possible.

Explores, plots pins in her head, where the commissary is, on the bottom floor in the left corner making a shot to the stern of the ship potentially deadly to anyone feeling peckish at that moment. Eventually finds herself in the middle of the ship expecting a briefing room or military strategy conference area but finds only an atrium decorated with already wilting Earth flora.

Travels forward through crew areas, engineering rooms, armory upon armory, until she ambles by the correct door.

“Vala?” Dr. Jackson beckons her into an office, much like a conference room back on the mountain, but drastically smaller. Major Carter sits at the minute table typing away on a computer with a pair of headphones on.

“Dr. Jackson.” Grins with relief that a familiar, trustworthy face has finally appeared.

Crosses his arms, but carries a warm grin, as he leans against the door frame. “Glad to see that you’re up an about.”

“I have no idea where I am exactly.” Spins and finally notices the lack of directional signage. For such a gigantic and novel ship, there should be maps strewn about.

“Well that way—” points to her right over a small raise in the floor “—is the bridge, but we won’t need to meet there until tomorrow morning. I suggest you head back that way and go three floors down.”

“Oh, is that where your lab is? Are there more translations to be done?” 

“I couldn’t bring any of the texts up this time, they limited me to the basics.” His grin changes, loses vibrancy as he shifts standing straight, unmingling his arms, and clearing his throat. “Colonel Mitchell’s in room 23. He’ll show you around. I would offer but—” juts a thumb back at Major Carter frantically scribbling down notes on a page already half-filled.

“Thank you, Dr. Jackson.”

“Don’t mention it.”


	4. Unsought, Is Better

Knocks on Cameron’s door, but he either refuses to answer or he is not currently inside.

This leaves her in a rather rare state of not knowing exactly what to do or where to go. She’s feeling a little bit peckish, so she could stroll down to the commissary and help herself to a meal or two and check back in later.

She could also set up camp in the hallway so she’s aware of when he enters or exits his room, because he’ll let her know exactly what’s going on in this mission and what to expect. He was the one who told her to start trusting Dr. Jackson, which was obviously the right decision as he’s been integral in teaching her about the Tau’ri and also for procuring delicious foreign snacks from off base.

However, she doesn’t get to make a choice, because as she examines the hallway again, he appears around the corner, and she doesn’t have time to hide even if she wanted to.

The big Tau’ri military man who still thinks he can goad his strength, his superiority in muscle mass, and the threat of violence over her.

Still thinks he can control her, when the only reason he ever could is because she wasn’t fully functional.

A different planet.

An injured body.

Let him come at her.

“Ms. Mal Doran you should be sequestered to your room.” Lorne announces one footstep around the corner, perhaps recognizing her before his eyes even hit her.

Plays coy, an attitude, a character perfected from childhood. Sways her body slightly, leaning back against the wall with her hands clasped behind her back, and chirps, “General Hammond allowed me full run of the ship. I can go anywhere I wish.”

“You should go back to your room.” Stops his stride now, his arms stiff at his side, and although she’s fairly familiar with the Tau’ri military at this point, she knows what aggression that rigidness contains.

“I’m waiting for Colonel Mitchell.”

“It’s against protocol to—”

“What I do is of no concern to you, Major.”

He’s infinitely closer in the course of two heavy steps slamming against the ground. His body unyielding and radiating heat against her.

When he speaks his voice is a harsh whisper with a tremble, not of fear or subordination, but of unbridled rage. The words hit her face in bursts. “It _is_ my concern because while you may have everyone else on this ship fooled, I remember exactly what you’re capable of.”

“I remember too, Major.” Cocks her head to the side, biting her lower lip, and blinking with innocence. “They didn’t give you a hard time for beating on a woman, did they?”

To his benefit, he does hold his composure longer than she assumed. His eyes flare as he inhales deeply, his nostrils whistle, and he’s close enough to knee her in the stomach in a second, which is how it happened during their second encounter. “Vala. You will listen to me. You will return to your—”

“Did they get at you for that?” There’s a pause as he tries to comprehend her words, and just as he does, she continues, “for violating me? I mean, I assume they would mock you for not being able to find a willing partner.”

A familiar vein appears on his forehead, one that bulges with his fury. His face is almost red, and she realizes that in her confidence, she may have over done goading him—however, she’s fairly certain that should he become uncontrollably violent, which seems plausible as his draws his hand back, fingers crunching into a fist, that she could best him.

She doesn’t get a chance because his balled fist is snatched out of the air, his arm grinding with resistance as it’s forced back down to his side.

“Leave,” is the only word Cameron growls.

“Really Mitchell? You’re gonna choose some second rate—”

Cameron releases Lorne, taking a step away, and she notices the unsteadiness on his feet, not very nimble despite her sacrifice to make him so. “Goodbye, Major.”

Lorne glares at him for a long moment, and she gets an understanding that perhaps, before her capture by the military, that they were friends. “Fine.”

It’s obvious that the exchange, even the gesture of Lorne’s submission, is cold—but the Major does continue down the hallway without a glance back.

Cameron, on the other hand, is more riled up, the hand which previously snatched Lorne’s arm, turning white knuckled at his side.

“Darling.” Curls her hand around his bicep willing his arm to relax. Not wanting anyone to catch him in a situation that compromises his position. “I believe he’s gone.”

“He’ll be back.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Pecks his cheek, his skin clammy and cold under her lips, as he stares at the corner Lorne disappeared around. “Have you come down with an illness?”

“Motion sickness, over two thirds of the crew have it.” He shakes his head, his wet hair lapping at his forehead. “I think SG-1 is fine because of how often they go through the gate.”

Plants herself back against the wall, a sincerity behind her coquettishness now. “And your people didn’t think to run trials before sending this big of a crew into space?”

He leans his head against the metal door, letting her to drag a finger over the wrinkles that appear when he squints his eyes at the keypad while unlocking his room. “We’re overzealous.”

Reaching inside he slaps blindly for the light switch, and perhaps he’d like to be alone tonight to recover from his nausea, but before she suggests it, he scoops up her hand, hauling her into the room with a grin.

“That you definitely are.”

She tosses her jacket to the side, tugging him to the bed, clambering onto the mattress, resting on her knees as he strips her shirt off. Her fingers begin to unbutton his, swirl and tickle through the thatch of hair on his chest.

“Hey.” Pulls his lips from her neck and nudges her shoulder with his nose, plucking his lips over a certain area, creating a bit of suction, a bit of traction. “Your scar.”

Dips her head down, rubbing her cheek into his hair, his exhalations caressing her skin. Drags her hands over the muscles in his back, over injuries too old to heal with the hand device, dips, and cuts carved in sinew.

“Healed.”

Pops away his lips, turns his face upwards to view her, his chin jutting into a swell of a breast still captured within her bra. He nuzzles and grins with a sigh.

“Finally.”

His word holds so much relief, like he was physically linked to her pain. Like he spent the last eighteen months coughing and tired and weak.

“Finally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Twelfth Night

**Author's Note:**

> Also, should have been mentioned well before--and I will go back and correct for each story--but each story title and chapter title are borrowed from Shakespeare.  
> This story's title borrowed from Hamlet  
> This chapter's title borrowed from Cymbeline


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